Midnight

Writing

I found myself floating on a dust cloud. There was water flooding the bottom of this pit. I was aiming toward the clouds thinking that happiness was in them.

I fell into a dream and silence was all there was. The colors weren’t present and everything kept peeling away. I didn’t know where I was.

When I awoke from this silent dream and all the color returned to the backs of my curtains and my pupils met the fluorescent light of the flickering blub on my lamp. I didn’t feel the same,

I felt empty; the dream drained me of whatever energy I had been holding in my chest cavity.

My bed didn’t feel comfy, my room wasn’t my sanctuary. I felt empty.

All these dreams haunt my day to day. I feel like the words that I’ve mentally written on these walls are slowly melting away.

I’ve been writing on writers block.

Everyone’s afraid of me when they see my thoughts written out in plain text, but I’m not depressed. I’m just able to use my eyes and my brain and see the things that everyone seems to not pay attention too.

I’ve been running back into the usual plan.

Writing enough bullshit to figure out what my dream means, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a few weeks. My body is as tired as my eyes are.

I’m afraid of people,

I’m afraid of love and commitment; I’m terrified of myself.

I’m afraid of the real face I wear when I’m alone with my thoughts, but I’ve accepted the things I’ve hidden away.

Lately everyone’s been hitting these emotional climatic walls and their hearts are exploding with emotions and I’ve been on the same plateau trying to figure out what emotions works for what situation.

But it just doesn’t matter.

None of this really does, I’ve just been forcing myself to write because I want to finish this book but instead of running my work into the ground I’ve let myself write and talk to myself on this.

But what am I doing showing people who I really am, the real me is hideous.

Writers block fucking sucks.

I don’t know where I’m going.

 

 

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